


the gears of the world

by thinkatory



Category: Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alchemy, Backstory, Eventual Femslash if I Finish This, Mad Science, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: A story of how a Kellid "barbarian" came to be a great alchemist."I'm beginning to see why they brought you here, yes." Joram Kyte smiles again. Selka stares at him blankly. "I wouldn't call the lady Brigh the goddess of technology as such. She's more complex than that. Inspiration, my girl. Have you ever felt inspired?"It stirs something in her, and she can tell he's seen it in her eyes, and she hates that instantly. "Yes," she admits, grudgingly. "I've known things. Felt things. It feels right. Are you saying the goddess has called upon me? I think I might have noticed."





	the gears of the world

**Author's Note:**

> I used a LOT of Pathfinder materials to write this story (and don't have access to them anymore, so this may never be finished, sorry, though I would love to).
> 
> A grown Selka can be seen in an art commission I took out here: https://yamaorce.deviantart.com/art/Selka-Dolokra-comm-499072690

_ 12 12 13 (I estimate around 4700 AR?) _

 

_ Among others, of course, I have been abducted by the Technic League. _

 

_ The Ghost Wolves have always called them barbarians, which is somewhat ironic, and I'm more than pleased to find them wrong. Things are always more complicated than my people make them. The people of the Technic League have provided me with paper, ink, quills, books, I can go on. I'll admit I didn't expect them to be so kind, I expect the indoctrination of the Kellid mindset has been more or less effective in my case, but sarcasm and a go-on-and-kill-me attitude has served me well. _

 

_ I've asked for a notebook, they're searching for one now. I'll have to spell this into it. _

 

_ A journal. I am beyond satisfied with this much, how sad is that? _

 

_ I'll miss my family, for now, they may never let me near them again -- joining the Technic League, what a betrayal! --  but I've seen the workshops in passing. This is where I'm meant to be. _

 

\--

 

_ 17 12 4700 AR _

 

_ I have considered praying to Erastil. It's foolishness. He's stifling, and I'm no longer with my tribe, who I honestly think worship the god out of habit. They practice their rituals, ask for blessings, they receive them, life goes on. Maybe it's due to my age and inexperience with spellcasters outside of those mediocre weekend arcanist sorts in my tribe, but witches, wizards, alchemists, all seem to be capable of similar things without necessarily calling upon the power of the gods. _

 

_ I know this is blasphemy, and I'm not fool enough to say it to the gods. Thus why I won't pray today, or maybe never again. _

 

_ Atheism seems lovely. Less work, less naivete, less kneeling, less cowering. _

 

_ While I'll miss my parents, those who attempt to control me now may stop calling me troubling and asking me to stop experimenting with the magics and spells I've learned to date. Thirteen is too young, they say, you need to work on your skill with the greataxe, invisibility and healing spells are the most we need, you've spent too much time in the forests with the animals, what are you doing with them? Do you want to bring down the wrath of Erastil? It's wrong to hunt with magic, a bow will do as nicely. _

 

_ They never realized I could do both. My skill with my greataxe is FINE. Better than many. The Technic League wishes I would surrender it and focus entirely on their subjects. No one realizes I can do both, not even those who consider themselves enlightened by the goddess Brigh. _

 

_ I see no point investigating her. She's just another jumped-up tyrant with blessings and kneelers. _

 

\--

 

_ 20 1 4701 AR _

 

_ All are suspicious of me due to the way I dress, the way I mark my face, the way I alone look, my bandolier and greataxe strapped to me equally. My masters at the Technic League -- a horrible word to use, I know -- insist I conform to certain standards. _

 

_ I will admit this only to my journal, but I might well do so. _

 

_ This is my life now. I know how to survive, my tribe taught me that much. The Ghost Wolves know how to get by in the worst of situations. But whatever god thought it funny to send a person such as me to be born into the Ghost Wolves was a fool. Cayden Cailean, perhaps, the greatest fool of the gods.  _

 

_ Of course, that indicates the gods have any say in who is born to what. I believe -- I ACKNOWLEDGE that they have sway and power, and may send certain things to those who ask for it, or so they might do good or evil in the world. I refuse to acknowledge OR believe that there's such a thing at play in my life. _

 

_ What I do believe is that I'm fourteen years old, a woman in all the important ways, a year old enough to have joined the hunting parties at home. _

 

_ I'll have to speak to my masters, then. I expect to be treated as well, if not better, amongst my equals. _

 

\--

 

Selka Dolokra is deposited at the Temple of Brigh in Torch the day after writing nothing short of blasphemies in her journal. They didn't look at the journal, of course; it was more the way she spoke to her masters at the Technic League, doubting whether she should remain if the Ghost Wolves would treat her much better and respect her talent with the greataxe if nothing else. She supposes it was foolishness to do so, as she sits and waits for the high priest to arrive in the small library they've left her in.

 

_ Don't touch the books _ , they said firmly after leaving her there.

 

She glares at the shelves. The books are too tempting. She thinks she might explode like one of the bombs she so often sees carried in a bandolier if she's expected to ignore them for too long. They may be boring holy books, but they are boring holy books of a goddess who seems more worth her salt than most of those crammed into a pantheon.

 

The door opens, and her head whips back, her braids smacking the back of her neck like short, soft blows of the cat o' nine tails. The man looks like a high priest. She does her best not to scowl.

 

"My name is Joram Kyte," he says, and his accent is pure Kellid. Her eyebrows rise, and he smiles broadly. "Yes. You are new to Torch, I imagine, if you're surprised to see your own here. Well, not your own -- I'm told you came from a raid on the Ghost Wolves?"

 

"Yes," she says, loath to speak of it. "They took many of my kin."

 

"And yourself. But you've survived. Gone without experimentation." He takes a seat across the room. "How? Why?"

 

"You know why," she answers, failing to restrain a scowl. "They must have told you about me. At the very least, they wouldn't have brought me here unless there was a reason. No Ghost Wolf would be brought to the goddess of technology without a very clear reason."

 

"I'm beginning to see why they brought you here, yes." Joram Kyte smiles again. Selka stares at him blankly. "I wouldn't call the lady Brigh the goddess of technology as such. She's more complex than that. Inspiration, my girl. Have you ever felt inspired?"

 

It stirs something in her, and she can tell he's seen it in her eyes, and she hates that instantly. "Yes," she admits, grudgingly. "I've known things. Felt things. It feels right. Are you saying the goddess has called upon me? I think I might have noticed."

 

"She's not like the gods you may have known. She's... subtler. Less rigid. She encourages our freedom to act as we might, so long as we pursue knowledge and greatness in her name." Joram holds her gaze. "Are these things you would protest in a goddess?"

 

It takes courage. Her heart has no end of stores of that. "I would protest a goddess in all forms, forgive me, High Priest."

 

"Don't ask forgiveness if you're not sorry, my girl," he says, and his smile grows wider than before. "You're young. You will see the light of Brigh, and hear the soft movement of the gears of the world soon. Would you hold a holy text, read it? That's all I ask of you."

 

"What do I get out of it?" she asks; if acknowledging a goddess will get her books, she'll at least consider it, but she's not about to let him know he might have won.

 

"Whispers, girl. You may hear whispers." The priest drums his fingers on a book, and her eyes land upon the thick text there. She craves it, instantly. "You may be moved to create more and better things." He stands, picks up the text, and holds it out to her. "Read it. I expect you can read?"

 

"Without any trouble," she says, with a little venomous defense, and begins to page through it.

 

"Ah, ah," Joram Kyte says, and puts his hand over the book. She glares at him. "I ask for one more thing."

 

"You said that the book is all you would ask of me," she points out.

 

"I did. Consider this an offer, then: would you join me in my smithy?"

 

She rolls her eyes before she can stop herself. "Yes," she says, "because I doubt my minders would allow me to get away with it otherwise, and I don't feel like running in an unfamiliar town. Where is it?"

 

"Not far," he says dryly. "Come along, girl."

 

"My name is Selka," she fires back.

 

"That it is." He seems even more amused now, and gestures for her to rise. "Come along, Selka."

 

\--

 

Selka leaves the high priest's smithy with a necklace with a gear clasped around her neck, the same toothed gear imprinted on the cover of the holy text. She has the suspicion all the adults around her have concluded she's a clear convert, and it irks her, but she's decided to let them believe it so they might leave her alone.

 

They do leave her alone, and she reads the text, without stopping, over the course of the night, until the light of the dawn peers through her window.

 

She finds it... not entirely unappealing.

 

\--

 

It's confusing, then, because her minders -- a word she likes much more than masters -- decide to shunt her off about two weeks after her apparent conversion at the Torch temple of Brigh. Hajoth Hakados is not a place she's keen to go, nor a place her minders particularly want to go either, but with the mention of a mentor in the art of alchemy, she's resolved to go, alone, without any of the Technic League ruining her chances.

 

"We are not about to let a girl of your age leave without an escort," Pol, the wizard with the bushy eyebrows and the metal arm, insists.

 

"I'm more than capable of defending myself. I'm dressed as a Kellid again," she points out. "There's nothing besides my mentor to indicate that I'm anything less than another girl wandering through town as neutrally as possible, which I should mention is what I'm doing. I'm not exactly going to mount a one-teenager invasion of the town, do I look like a fool?"

 

He looks skeptical, and she gives him a look that might kill him had she been a mesmerist. "I'm not," she finishes, hotly.

 

"We won't send you alone. We'll send you with one of the Black Sovereign's men."

 

She pushes her hair from her face; she'll have to do her braids overnight. "Fine."

 

"I'm glad we're agreed," Pol says. "Now come, sit, eat. You Kellids are fond of your venison, are you not?"

 

Selka bristles, but concedes the point and climbs onto the bench to eat, more than a little ravenous from the sleepless, focused hours spent drawing up scrolls for her minders.

 

\--

 

Cythrul is not what she expected out of a mentor, nor is Hajoth Hakados what she expected out of a town.

 

"No, we are not Torch," Cythrul says, comfortably wandering through her study, apparently doing less cleaning up than rearranging things to be in a more organized state of clutter. "You're right about that."

 

Her Common is incredibly accented, an accent that's unreadable, her face -- her everything -- completely inexplicable, but Selka has spent too much time with the Technic League to not know what this means. "You're from the stars."

 

"Yes, well-spotted," Cythrul says, kindly sardonic. She tries not to scowl. She wants a good relationship with this... person, thing, woman -- as it is clearly a woman, or close enough. It's reassuring that she's been entrusted to a woman. With her tribe, she would have been entrusted to a woman, and at least one thing is familiar enough to that part of her mind that won't let go of the Ghost Wolves. "I need to see what you can do," she goes on.

 

"They didn't tell you?" She's skeptical. "They should have told you."

 

"Your mouth is going to be a problem," Cythrul says, then adds casually, "for the rest. Diplomacy is for paladins and nobles. I need to see what you can do, for myself. Go on."

 

Apparently she can speak as she will. "Go on what?"

 

Cythrul gestures at her lab. "Go on," she repeats.

 

Selka has never had access to anything like this, unfettered access, at least. She's seen everyone do everything, she's read the books, she knows the theory. It's a little different in practice, though, it requires a steady hand and more caution than she's used to, and midway through a mutagen Cythrul starts laughing.

 

"What?" she demands.

 

"You need to stop." Cythrul comes over to her side. "This is far too advanced for your skills now."

 

"I disagree."

 

"Disagree all you want, I'm right." She closes the flask. "Stop before you kill yourself. You're talented, it would annoy me to lose a prospect like you. At the very least you could work for me."

 

"I'm with the Technic League," Selka says without missing a beat. "I won't be tied to anyone else."

 

"Loyalty. I didn't expect that from you." Cythrul laughs again.

 

She shrugs. "It's not loyalty, it's sense. They're more powerful than you are."

 

"That's a short-sighted view, but -- we can work on that." Cythrul considers the lab. "I'll have you write scrolls for today while I'm working on a plan for you."

 

"What kind of plan?" She's dreading the answer a bit.

 

There's a glint in Cythrul's strange eyes. "A lessonplan."

 

\--

 

This is the happiest Selka has ever been.

 

There's no end to the supplies, and within a year she's allowed complete access to Cythrul's supplies. She generally avoids the town and the residents, because they've concluded certain things based on where she goes and what she buys, even if Cythrul's constructs do the large majority of the hunting down of necessities.

 

Actually, working for Cythrul is almost too easy, too fantastic, suspiciously perfect, up until a certain point, clearly marked when Cythrul enters the lab and speaks without any further preface. "We need to talk about payment for your education."

 

"I have nothing to pay you with," she says without stopping her work or even displaying hesitation.

 

"Oh, but you do." When she looks back at Cythrul with a skeptical look, her mentor displays a toothy grin. "You know of the Black Sovereign."

 

"Yes, of course." It's a stupid question.

 

"He is of your human tribe," Cythrul proceeds.

 

"Not of my tribe specifically, but yes, he rules all Kellids." Selka pauses. "Or so is said."

 

"Yes, yes, human politics." She waves it off with hands Selka once considered strange. Now they're just hands. "I need something from the Sovereign, and you need to learn how to use that quick tongue of yours for more than pointless argumentation. He is close to a man who works skymetal, a man named Hunt. I need a message sent to him, a deal tendered. You will have to go through the Sovereign first."

 

"Easy," she says, without missing a beat. "I need money for a horse and books -- "

 

"More books?" Cythrul repeats.

 

"Yes. Give me money. Your deal will be tendered _ and accepted _ ." She keeps skymetal in her gaze, not just steel. "I'll get you what you want and more. And you'll remember it."

 

"The arrogance of youth." First, Cythrul scoffs, then she snorts, then outright laughs. "I like it. Go." She gestures a spell, and the vault at the other corner of the room flies open. "Take what you need. I expect documentaton of what you spent and as well as that you return what remains."

 

"I wouldn't risk ruining this alliance," Selka says mildly. "I'll see you later."

 

Cythrul may well be smirking as she leaves.

 

\--

 

It takes two days for Selka to become passably decent at riding, at least enough to pass as an incompetent Black Horse girl, and less than a day to track down the books she'll need, in spite of the townspeople's irritating suspicion of her. Her sharp tongue is enough to generally get her what she needs, after all.

 

She limps back nto Cythrul's lab later that day, her legs sore from riding. "Here's your money," she tries not to grumble, "try not to experiment on the horse, he's worth more than a copper, though I doubt you'd know the difference. Only cavaliers, soldiers, and those of the Black Horse know for sure, and I've seen them riding through Torch." She shrugs.

 

"Did you name the horse?" Cythrul asks, not turning around.

 

The question annoys Selka more than it should. "Why should I?"

 

"You're such a great mind, you can't think outside of a lab -- could you ever?" She doesn't allow Selka to answer, going on. "They would name a horse. It's their companion, a friend, a compatriot. It deserves a name."

 

"Like an axe." She says it without thinking, and curses loudly. A childhood slip. How embarrassing. "Fine, I'll name it."

 

Cythrul snorts and turns to face her. "Nothing too telling, now -- "

 

"I know," she says, still annoyed. "This is my plan, if you recall."

 

"And it's my livelihood you hold in your hands, as well as your own. My business." Cythrul shrugs, in apparent mockery of her earlier gesture of dismissal. "Leaving tomorrow?"

 

"Yes. Now if you'll excuse me I have research to do."

 

Cythrul raises a clawed hand. "You also have scrolls to -- "

 

"Do you want your skymetal or not?" Selka says coolly.

 

It occurs to her that instant that it was foolish to say, even on instinct, but Cythrul takes pause -- is she  _ worried _ ? "Go, then," she says without further comment, and turns swiftly back to her work.

 

Dazed, Selka goes to read. As she settles at her desk, it sinks in. A smirk invades her face before she can halt it. She puts her booted feet on the desk with heavy thunks each, and reads, content in knowing that she can do this.

 

Something has come from all of her foolhardiness after all.  _ They've begun to believe her. _

 

\--

 

The Black Sovereign's men are idiots. This is hardly news, but it takes nothing to get within his manor's gates. She speaks with her thickest Kellish accent, plays innocent, and laughs and fights the sixteen year old guard axe to axe in the most flirtatiously Kellish way possible. He wins, easily, but she wins access into the Sovereign's so-called manor.

 

It would be impressive to some, but not to her. All braided and painted, her furs too thin, the most cunning or gentlemanly (or both) men surrender furs to her, and the women advise her on how to best be at home in the manor and ingratiate herself to all there. She nods, listens, and remembers what they say, in case. You never truly know what you'll need to know until you don't know it.

 

The starsmith, Toran Hunt, sits a few chairs from the Sovereign. She decides to be patient, and pick at her first course. The time will come when she can --

 

Someone knocks wine into the starsmith's lap, he scrambles up, and that's as clear a time as any. She withdraws with Kellish grace from the conversation before the smith has a chance to even stand, and leaves the hall, snatching up a cloth napkin as she goes.

 

Hunt hurries into the corridor, and she stumbles forward into his path. She feigns tears, frightened stifled sobs, just as hurriedly wiping her face as though to clear her face from the trace of tears or smears of her facial paint, and he stops, clearly startled but annoyed, until he registers her apparent distress. "Excuse me, girl," he starts.

 

"Oh -- oh!" She looks down at his soaked clothing, then quickly up as though embarrassed. "I -- you need this more than I do," she stammers through, and to her astonishment  _ he's falling for it _ . He softens, takes the napkin, and turns graciously from her to blot out the wine.

 

"What has upset you?" he asks, his back still to her.

 

"I -- " She puts on a mortified tone, and presses her face to her hands when he turns back to her.

 

"Speak up, girl," he says, gruffly. "I understand that the kindest sorts are those subjected to the work. Is it not true? You wept before."

 

"I, I. I have been sent to Torch for -- by -- " He watches her stammer, then she sighs, averting her eyes, just enough to be able to gauge his reactions. "My master demands I bring a message to the Sovereign, but I can't approach him, and she will have -- no, she wouldn't be so kind as to only take my head, she would -- " She bites her lip, hard.

 

"What message?" Hunt presses her.

 

Selka pauses, hesitant. "I can't read, sir," she admits, "and I wouldn't dare read it if I could."

 

"I have the Sovereign's ear, girl, I can bring it to him on your master's behalf and yours." It occurs to him. "Who is your master?"

 

"Cythrul of Hajoth Hakadas." She focuses on staying stiff, as he focuses on her just as closely once she speaks the name. "I am among her loyal subjects."

 

"Experimental subjects," he half-asks.

 

She bares her arm, the runes there, burned with cold iron and bits of the metal still there. "Yes, sir," she says cautiously.

 

He looks at her arm, silent for a moment. "May I see the message?" he asks, then, quiet.

 

She pulls the furs over her arm again. "I -- was told -- "

 

"I will pass it onto him," he promises her.

 

She nods, slowly, and draws a piece of paper from the front of her shirt. He averts his eyes, and she tenders it to him. According to plan so far. He has her version of the deal in hand. Halfway there.

 

His eyes spark as he reads. "I'll deal with this," he says, pocketing it, and then places his hand on her arm, the one maimed with runes. "You should pledge yourself to the Sovereign, girl. He is a good man, whatever your master has said to you. Do not return to her."

 

"But -- I -- " She feigns fear.

 

"I'll deal with this," he repeats, more firmly this time. "Go. Return to your dinner."

 

"Thank you," she says in a rush, and returns to the hall, lifting her skirts slightly to move all the faster.

 

The venison is fresh and perfectly prepared, and, though she wouldn't admit it to anyone besides her journal, it's almost a greater comfort than the victory she just won.

 

\--

 

"You did it," Cyrthrul says, and her eyes literally sparkle in a look Selka now knows as pure amusement and perhaps happiness as well. Possibly both. "I didn't think it would go _ that _ well."

 

"You underestimated me." She takes the bite out of the words and the sharpness of her tone with a smile that might be too toothy. She's been here for too long; she's not what she once was.

 

And that's the best part.  _ She's better _ .

 

\--

 

Cythrul sends her back to the Technic League after two more years of the same, endless quests for more money, more technology, more skymetal. Selka has grown exceedingly better at alchemy as well, really, with all of her crafts. She becomes even more skilled in disguise and artifice, and doubts the use of pretty words when lies are so much more convenient and can be twisted to any means.

 

The League barely knows what to do with her, and that's the way she likes it. If only her parents could see her now, terrifying the Technic League from within.

 

"We go to Starfall tomorrow," Zania, her obnoxious new half-elf minder, says curtly as she stands in Selka's doorway.

 

"I would be careful," she says, "you're one inch from the trap."

 

"You wouldn't trap your League quarters," Zania says coolly.

 

"You're a fool if you haven't." She goes on. "Starfall?"

 

"Yes. I'm told you have some skill in potions and mutagens? You'll want a bandolier's worth, two if you want on my good side." Zania pauses, clearly for effect, and smiles nastily. "In case you doubted, this is  _ my  _ expedition."

 

_ It is for now. _ "Yes," she says mildly. "That it is. After breakfast, I expect?"

 

"Yes. Get to work."

 

Selka waits for Zania's footsteps to fade from hearing before she follows that "order" and it's worth making the potions and the mutagens for the making of the potions or the mutagens alone. Heading to Starfall is only extra. 

 

She couldn't sleep even if she had the tme to. For the first time in a long time, she feels moved, inspired.

 

The words cross her mind and her fingers briefly touch the toothed still hanging around her neck. Then she dismisses the thought entirely, or tries valiantly to.

 

The gods do try to stick, don't they?

 

\--

 

Starfall is amazing. It's everything Selka dreamed of from the stories the Ghost Wolves told in defiantly frightened whispers, ones she only overheard from eavesdropping. They intended to keep her running in the opposite direction. She only ever wanted to run towards it, and now she has a chance.

 

There's a ship. There's a ship, and she feels her age, now, she feels inexperienced and overwhelmed, because it's the most beautiful and terrifying thing she's ever seen. She just wants to run towards it and explore every corner and let her greataxe bite into every enemy who might try to lay a hand or sword on her, but Zania holds her back.

 

"No," she says, forcefully, and pushes her much more gently behind the others. "You'll join us once we flush the area for enemies."

 

"I'm perfectly capable of defending myself. And you," Selka points out, an edge to her voice.

 

"You would be, if you didn't think that way." Zania ignores her, and walks away, adding "Keep a look out and defend us if anyone stumbles upon you, will you, Dolokra?"

 

Selka rolls her eyes and hangs back. She traces the runes on her arm casually, the two marks of the Runelord of Pride couching the rest of the more practical magical runes. She's sure the other members of the Technic League are cold. It's hilarious that they would be. They have a bear's worth of fur on them, and it's embarrassing how low quality the furs are, to be honest.

 

One day the runes will come of use, she's sure of it. Inspiration. Movement. Brigh spoke, just once. She whispered, just once, not in words, but a tug in her gut instead.

 

_ You'll know. When you must act, you'll know. _

 

"Dolokra!" It's a message spell, from Zania. She straightens. "Come to the ship. It's clear.  _ Behave _ ."

 

Another eyeroll can't be helped. She rushes to the ship, slowing as she sees Zania and the others combing the outside of the ship for samples. "We're going inside," she says to Selka, who must look as surprised as she feels, because she snorts. "Yes. I'm taking you with me. You're my responsibility, and I'm meant to show you how we do things here."

 

"I'm perfectly aware of how we do -- " Selka begins, grandiosely, when Zania rudely interrupts again.

 

"Stop ruining things by talking," she suggests, and goes inside the ship.

 

Selka huffs and follows her. Clearly another tactic is necessarily to get under Zania's skin. She'll figure it out; it'll only require a week at most. She snaps out of it when the ship just dazzles her, and Zania laughs at her. "You're such a Kellid."

 

She bristles, outright. "You need to stop talking down to me."

 

"Calm down," Zania suggests, her eyebrows lifting.

 

"I'm a perfectly capable alchemist and I expect you to treat me as such," Selka insists.

 

"You're wasting my time is what you are," Zania says swiftly. "Come along, Dolokra."

 

Selka thinks about burying her greataxe into the half-elf bitch's skull, but she graciously does not and just follows her into the ship, which is incredible, all skymetal and machines she's seen in Cythrul's lab hidden up on unreachable shelves. The most amazing place is a room with a panel full of machines. If she were the poetic type, she would say her heart about stops.

 

"Here." Zania hands her a packet full of tools, ignoring her awe. "Follow my lead. We're going to strip this ship down to nothing, before the others can get to it. Open that panel -- with that -- yes, I'm glad to see you can take some orders."

 

Selka scoffs and begins to disassemble and remove the pieces inside. She can feel Zania trying to disapprove behind her, and is immensely pleased that she can't.

 

It goes this way for about a half hour's time, Zania supervising while working on parts of her own, then there's a scream from outside of the ship.

 

"Shit," Zania says suddenly, frantically, "shit, that's -- oh, shit." She shifts her bandolier and takes a bomb into her hand. "Go, here, take -- take this -- " She shoves a box into Selka's hands -- "I need you to protect this, Brigh only knows what it does, we'll do what we can -- it's -- shit!" She runs faster than Selka's ever seen her move, leaving her dumbstruck.

 

She looks down at the box she's been handed, its cover open, and it's essentially her job to be curious. She opens it. A series of glass flasks are enclosed, only two full, one filled with something like mercury.

 

"Ha," a man's voice comes down the corridor. Her head whips up as the grinning man in white wolf furs shifts his greataxe and barrels down the hallway. "For the honor of the Ghost Wolves," he cries.

 

"Oh, for the love of -- " Selka begins, and ducks under his swing, debating running down the hallway behind him when a woman aims her bow at her head. "Oh you have got to be -- " She ducks another swing from the man and throws an acid bomb at the woman, not letting herself think about the Ghost Wolves, no, not at all. She throws up a protection spell and runs through the acid splash effect to enter another room in the ship, shoving the door shut from the inside and locking it.

 

She is not going to let those bastards steal what is rightfully hers, forget Zania -- she may be as good as dead if she isn't dead already, and she has no great love for the woman as it is.

 

Then, Selka knows.

 

She seizes the silver flask, pulls the top off of it, wild and foolish, and downs it like a devotee of Cayden Cailean and his ale.

 

She hits the ground before she realizes she's falling, something escaping her mouth, not words, froth, and she prays to Brigh, she prays, she prays -- 

 

\--

 

She's beautiful. She's beautiful, all bronze and teeth and blank eyes, all alluring and intense, and Selka has never loved a man but could never love a man the way that she loves this woman now, this --

 

_ Live,  _ she whispers. _ Do my work. _

 

_ The Whisper in the Bronze, _ she thinks blindly, before the warm light all vanishes into darkness in an instant.


End file.
